Resurrecting Jezebel
by Curiosity
Summary: Voldemort succeeds in bringing back from the dead the one person who, brainwashed into become a perfect fighting machine, could spell the death of Harry. But Severus Snape has other ideas. Set in seventh year.
1. Prologue

**Resurrecting Jezebel**

_who's seen jezebel?/ she was certainly the spark for all I've done_

_the window was wide/she could see the dogs come running_

_saying 'wait, we swear/ we'll love you more and wholly_

_jezebel, it's we that you are for/ only'_

* * *

If life were a movie, the camera would pan in on a cemetery in Godric's Hollow, England. It is nightfall and the last vestiges of light flee the sky as if sensing magic of the darkest sort about to be performed. Now the close-up on a disturbed grave. Dark figures in hoods circle the ground, a warped and inhuman face full of malice stands in its center and sneers, relishing his return to power.

"Open the coffin," the Dark Lord commands. "Bring me her bones." He invokes the darkest of spirits- the more superstitious among his followers might be inclined to call them demons, but to Voldemort, they are business associates; beside him, an unfinished portrait of a woman is unveiled. Her husband had commissioned it, but both he and she died before it was ever finished, leaving both the face in the painting and the artist's attempts at capturing personality incomplete. The Dark Lord spills the blood of each of his minions into the cauldron (save one, who is currently about his bidding spying on the Order of the Phoenix, has been for months, and knows nothing of his master's brilliant stroke of inspiration). His own will be needed before this is over to appease the dark spirits with whom he is dealing. With his wand, he mutters a complex incantation at the portrait; a sort of silver liquid pours forth. He inspects it before mixing it with the other ingredients.

"It remains unfinished. Good. Her will is not yet solidified. I can make it mine." He slashes his own wrist, grimacing in distaste at the act, and the mixture in the cauldron roils and bubbles and smokes. A gathering darkness crowds about his blood, darker even than the black robes his Deatheaters wear or the night falling heavily about him. It is an oppressive and suffocating sentient sort of darkness, and it craves blood. "Now," he says, and two hooded figures dump the whole cauldron over the skeleton lying in the opened coffin. He watches dispassionately as muscles knit themselves to bone, organs and tendons connecting; the rot of years reverses itself, and skin stretches over the rebuilt body. Fingernails and toenails regrow, long red hair quickly spills down past the woman's shoulders. The last details to fall in place are her eyelashes and freckles. She looks to be no more than thirty, possibly younger. She is still pale as death, now naked perfection, but soulless. A dead thing. Voldemort frowns.

"We could make her an Infe-" someone hazards. Voldemort backhands the unfortunate minion.

"No. Not an Inferi. We need her soul." He ponders this for a moment. "Shall we trade?" He asks the sentient darkness, his lips twisting in amusement at the idea. He turns to his minions. "One of your souls for hers?" He seems to receive an answer, for he nods once to the looming blackness and motions for the ritual to begin. The hooded figures start chanting in Latin. An unfortunate victim's throat is slit with a knife as the chanting reaches its crescendo; observers could swear they see the soul leaving the body and being sucked into nothingness. At that moment a portal, a sort of swirling black vortex made of the sentient darkness, appears before Voldemort. Wormtail reaches into it with his silvery hand and, as the Deatheaters chant the name of the woman they wish to bring back to the living, Wormtail grabs a struggling amorphous figure and pulls violently. Both hand and spirit come flying out of the portal, which snaps shut and disappears. Wormtail shoves the soul back into the dead body by sheer force. The magic holding his silver hand together shrivels and dies, and the stump of his wrist becomes visible once more. At that moment, the woman takes her first breath. She sits up, confusion and fear marring her delicate features.

"Where am I?" She frowns. "For that matter, who am I? What year is this?"

"You are in Godric's Hollow. Who you were is unimportant. You will answer to any name I choose to give you. All that need concern you is that you are about to become my most valued weapon. I have brought you back from the grave to serve me. The year is 1997." A robe is given to her to clothe herself.

"How long have I been dead?"

"Fifteen years." The woman without a name asks, calmly for one who has just risen from the dead,

"What must I do?" Voldemort ponders the question. He is in need of his Potions prodigy now more than ever, for a simple _Imperio_ is far too crude for the betrayal he has in mind. To brainwash her completely he will need complex magic, magic that Snape would be able to perform. He beckons to Lucius Malfoy. "Find Snape. Tell him I have a new recruit I need him to train. Someone he'll be particularly interested in meeting." Malfoy turns smartly on his heel and disappears. The woman frowns. Snape. That name should be very important to her, she can tell. She cannot remember her own name, but she remembers there was something about a man called Snape.

* * *

Lucius Malfoy finds Severus Snape and delivers the message matter-of-factly.

"Our Lord wishes to see you. He desires your help with a very delicate situation." Lucius pauses, searching for the right words, then shrugs and laughs it off. "He's resurrected Lily Evans," he says, and watches Snape drop his china teacup onto the floor and spill scalding tea all over himself. Snape doesn't even seem to notice, nor does he appear to be breathing.

"Alive?" He whispers. All the color has drained out of his face.

"You've missed a lot these last few months," Lucius says calmly and steers Snape away by the elbow. Snape feels like putting his head in his hands and moaning for sheer despair of a hopeless situation. Whatever the Dark Lord has planned for Lily, it cannot be good, and he is not sure he can stand to see her alive again without throwing himself at her feet and giving the whole game away. But this is the path he has chosen, and this is the path he will walk. Even if his blood is screaming _Lily, Lily, Lily_.


	2. Death Shall Be the Last to Die

**Resurrecting Jezebel Part One: Death shall be the last to die**

_for I have known them all already, known them all,_

_have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, _

_I have measured out my life with coffee spoons, _

_I know the voices dying with a dying fall _

_beneath the music from a farther room. _

_So how should I presume?-love song of j Alfred prufrock_

* * *

Wormtail. Peter Pettigrew. She is supposed to know him. She is told she knew him from before. He was a friend. She is supposed to know a great many things she does not. She will be placed in Wormtail's care and educated. He will trade off with this Snape person, and with the Master himself. She asks him, once, why he is called Wormtail. He demonstrates the name for her. She blinks, once, then nods. He goes back to explaining the important facts about her resurrection while the Master holds a hushed conference with his followers.

One: she is the only witch in history to have been successfully resurrected from the dead (not as a ghost, Inferi or other shade).

Two: she was killed in a war. At this point she asks Peter/Wormtail if she was an active participant in this war, and the Master has brought her back because she aided him faithfully in the past. It is curious how much Peter reminds her of a small rodent, even in his human form. He is twitchy, and there is something about his teeth. But he was a friend, she is told, in the life she does not remember, so she feels charitable toward him. He smiles at her and says that the Master was most pleased with her.

Three: she has been brought back to end that same war. The Master knows she is just the witch for the job. He would not have anyone else perform this task.

Four: This war is over who has the right to rule. The Master says purebloods and wizards from ancient families have that right. Mudbloods and Muggleborns are weaker wizards and they drag the strong down. She assumes she must be a very powerful pureblood indeed, and Wormtail murmurs "Yes, very powerful" in assent.

Five: she is to be trained in the Dark Arts to hunt down and kill the person who escaped justice and attacked the Master. This person is young but very dangerous. She does not recall having learned Dark Spells in her former life, but that is no great matter. She has clearly forgotten many things, and the Master is patient with her. She is grateful, if a bit rebellious. She wishes he were not quite so ugly and inhuman. Surely, she thinks, she had better taste in her former life than to follow someone who looked like this. She is shown a picture of the Master in his early days.

"Ah," she says appraisingly, "now _that_ looks like a face worthy of my attention."

These are the pertinent facts about her resurrection. She kneels before the Master. He asks her gravely if she will accept his Mark and serve him faithfully until death.

"I will," she returns. He touches his wand to her forearm. A design of a serpent entwined with a skull blooms on her skin. She gazes at it, contrasted starkly with her pale flesh and black robes. One of the Master's servants, called Lucius, a very aristocratic man with a cane, approaches.

"If I might offer a suggestion, Master," Lucius Malfoy drawls, "she is far too young and easily recognizable in her current state. Anyone would know who she was." _Who was I? _She wonders. "There are statues, Master. Here in this town."

"True," Voldemort muses. "What do you suggest, Lucius?"

"We must age her," the man says decisively. "A decade might do it, perhaps? With some minor physical alterations?"

"That will suit me for the time being," Voldemort says. "Make the necessary adjustments. But when the time comes, I want the boy to know who is attacking him. It will destroy him."

* * *

"Snape?" Lucius says as he and the other man Apparate to Godric's Hollow. "Change her hair texture, we were thinking. Perhaps the color of her eyes."

"No!" Snape says too sharply, and Lucius stares at him, inquisitive. "Not her eyes," he says, recovering. "I might damage them," he says lamely. "I'll change her hair. I'll turn it black and straight. Make her taller."

"Older as well," Lucius adds idly.

"Yes. Of course." Lucius indicates a door to his left. "She's just in there. I expect to see her when you're finished." Snape nods curtly. He flicks the door open with a spell so that Lucius will not see how his hands are shaking.

Lily is standing in a bare and empty room. She is wearing a black Deatheater robe; it dwarfs her. She is barefoot, and she turns a beaten gold mask over and over in her hand, staring at it and the Mark on her arm. She cannot seem to stop moving restlessly, perhaps reacquainting herself with the body she has so recently regained, the body that looks exactly as it did the day she died. An analytical part of his mind that never really shuts up comments idly that Lucius was right: she is far too conspicuous this way.. Snape cannot help what he does next. The action wells up in him from a place so deeply buried that he never thought it to see the light. He rushes toward her and crushes her to his chest. Unshed tears glitter in his eyes. Lily's mask falls out of her hand.

* * *

Her expression, head pressed to this man's chest, is one of surprise, her mouth open in a small 'o' shape. She wonders if this man knew her, before she was dead. Perhaps she should hug him back? Is this standard procedure for the master and his followers she was brought back to serve? Tentatively, her hands reach up to touch his back, lightly returning the embrace. Her newly returned pulse speeds up just a little and she marvels at the sensation. Fifteen years this body has lain dormant in the earth, and she remembers none of the journey of her soul, nor of the life before.

"Lily," the man holding her whispers.

"Who's Lily?" She whispers back, taking her cues from him. "Do I remind you of her?" The man pulls back, startled.

"You remember nothing?" He asks harshly. She shakes her head. "Lily is your name. Lily…" He has a short mental debate with himself, but cannot force the name 'Potter' out of his lips. He will use the name that belongs to her and her alone. _It is a small omission_, Severus tells himself. _Later, I will tell her everything. She does not need to hear about her dead husband now. _"Evans." He says firmly. "Lily Evans."

"Oh," she says faintly. "It is a pretty name."

"You had a sister, called Petunia."

"My parents must have liked flowers overly much," she says wryly, and Snape's heart skips a beat at the familiar jibe she has unconsciously uttered. She used to complain about it to him, before…

"The Master has jokingly called me 'Jezebel', I think because she made kingdoms fall." Snape wants to bark at her not to call him 'Master', that Voldemort is neither her master nor his. That Voldemort killed her in the first place. Instead he says,

"You know the reference?" Lily tilts her head at him and laughs throatily.

"I may have no memory," she says, "but I still have a brain." She waits for a moment, then decides knowledge gained is at this juncture better than propriety. She is not afraid to be rude, since she knows nothing of whom she is about to offend. "Who are you?"

"Oh!" The man starts and looks at her more intently. He has not stopped looking at her since he saw her. It is quite disconcerting but also slightly flattering. She admits to herself that she finds him oddly attractive, emphasis on the odd. "Forgive me." He makes a small bow. "I am Severus Snape." _You knew me once. We were childhood friends. I loved you hopelessly. _Lily nods as if that makes perfect sense.

"I remember you. I mean," she adds hastily, "I don't really, but the Master said after he brought me back to 'find Snape' and something in my mind knew your name, so-" she picks at the folds of her robe, turning the admission over on her tongue.

"So?" He prompts.

"You must be important," she concludes. "I knew you," she says with certainty. "I must have."

"You did," he ascertains, inclining his head a fraction. Lily beams and lays a hand on his upper arm.

"You are the key to unlocking my past," she says guilelessly, despite the blood-red nails and the wicked gleam in her eyes. "I just don't know why yet." She looks deeply into his eyes— he struggles to look back with self-assurance and not show the love that would surely terrify and disgust her. She seems satisfied with what she finds.

"But I will."

* * *

Snape closes his eyes and thanks the fates for favors small and large. She remembers him. Evidently, he is the _only _thing she remembers. He does not know whether to laugh or cry or kiss her senseless. He does none of these things. The only sensible course of action is, naturally, to stop whatever dark plan Voldemort has in mind for Lily, restore her memories, and keep her out of harm's way. He sighs mentally. No rest for the weary and the wicked. Lily catches his eye and smiles. He changes the mental sigh into a small moan. This Lily is looking at him with that murderous softness in her eyes again, appraising him even, and speaking to him as if he is the answer to every question she's ever had. A very selfish, weak part of him yearns for her company, even in this guise. A terrible, insidious thought creeps in: _what if she doesn't remember? What if James stays forgotten? I could have a second chance… she might grow to care for me, in time. _

He is grateful now more than ever for his rigid self-discipline, which allows him to place a mask of propriety and disaffectedness back in place as Lucius knocks on the door. Snape murmurs the spells that will change Lily's appearance, age her and stretch her and make her inconspicuous.

"Well," he drawls as Lucius enters the room, "I remain unconvinced that she won't be totally hopeless, but even fresh out of the grave, she's smarter than most of this lot put together." He shares an amused glance with Malfoy, who smirks in return.

"That doesn't surprise me," he returns. "We are surrounded by imbeciles."

"Azkaban rotted their minds," Snape says dispassionately.

"Mm," Lucius agrees, nodding thoughtfully as he paces around Lily for inspection.

"You know they're only temporary charms," Snape volunteers idly. "They'll have to be respelled every few days or they'll start to wear thin." Lucius shrugs one elegant shoulder.

"So you'll redo them. How hard can it be for the man who killed Albus Dumbledore?"

Lily watches the two men in silence. They seem to have forgotten she is in the room. She sees a flicker of pain behind Snape's eyes.

"Why is she here, Lucius?" Snape hisses softly.

"Surely someone as intelligent as you could have figured it out, Severus." Lucius' eyes flicker to Lily in the corner, then back again to Snape. "To do the thing that the Dark Lord cannot, with impunity."

Snape goes very, very still. He wants to retort that there are a great many things these days which Voldemort cannot do, but he fears he knows all too well what Lucius is implying. He means for Lily to… his stomach twists in an unpleasant manner. Her own son. Sometimes he forgets for a moment or two- deceived by the pathetic whinging and temper tantrums that Voldemort sometimes enacts- but he remembers now just why he is the most evil wizard the world has seen since Grindelwald. He must make her remember, he must. She must not do this thing to her own son. Snape may despise the boy for reasons of his own, but he would not wish him dead, not really. Nor could he allow Lily's soul to be ripped in twain. And yet, he knows that giving her up again will be the hardest thing of all. 


End file.
